


Not Today

by Cinaed



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-06
Updated: 2007-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems as though they've both been walking around in a half-daze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Today

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "Empty Eyes."

It isn’t the day that David starts acting oddly that Greg notices it. He has to actually overhear Sara mention to Nick that “Hodges seems off his game.” Because of that, it’s more like the third-- all right, the fourth day afterwards, really, that he realizes that David hasn't been himself.

Getting news about David second-hand (from _Sara_ of all people, who has always made it a point to ignore David when she’s not squabbling with him) reminds Greg of the days before he was a CSI, when he had been one of the lab rats. Just four years ago, he would have known something was up with David five minutes after the other man started acting oddly. Now, it takes four days and a comment from his fellow CSI to even hear the latest lab rat gossip. It would be depressing if he hadn’t chosen this path for himself. 

And besides, it’s not _exactly_ true, he reminds himself. Greg is usually still on the ball when it comes to the other lab rats, being an honorary member of the group, an emeritus of their inner circle. He usually just needs to wrestle himself away from Nick and Warrick to get the gossip, duck away from being a CSI for a little while, and he’s welcomed back into the group like it’s old times and he’s still Greg the DNA technician. 

Not only that, he tells himself silently, but he probably would’ve have figured out something was up with David on his own, if he hadn’t been walking around in a half-daze ever since Grissom had told him that the county had sold him out by paying the James family off. 

At the end of the shift, he sticks his head inside the trace lab and invites David for a drink. One swift look at David assures Greg that David needs one. In the span of four days, David’s face has acquired a sunken, weary look and there are circles like bruises under his eyes. 

At the invitation, though, something flickers in David’s blue eyes, and a ghost of a smirk twists his lips upwards. “I must look bad if even _you_’ve noticed,” he comments. 

Greg assumes an innocent look, widening his eyes and appearing puzzled for a moment. “You know, I’d try to argue and say you look as handsome as ever, but then you might spontaneously combust from the boost to your ego and Grissom would yell at me for ruining a perfectly good lab,” he says, and is rewarded by a quiet chuckle that broadens and strengthens David’s smirk. He tilts his head. “Well? Want to grab a beer with me?” 

“Only if you promise not to quote that damn line from The Simpsons as a toast,” David says dryly, and ignores Greg’s pout. David never has appreciated the brilliance of that show. 

“I promise,” Greg assures him, and makes a mental note to somehow slip that quotation into the conversation. He follows David out to his car, partly because he’s lazy and partly because there’s been a vague itch of discomfort and paranoia in the back of his head ever since he hit Demitrius James, an itch that flares whenever he gets behind the wheel of a car. 

“So who finally clued you in?” David asks halfway to the bar, interrupting Greg in mid-sentence about-- about-- well, truth be told, Greg hadn’t even been listening to himself, just saying whatever came into his head to fill up the silence. 

“What?” Greg blinks for a moment before he realizes that David means. “Oh, uh, Sara mentioned you seeming a bit off.” He hesitates and then finally asks, “So, do you want to talk about it now while you’re sober or later when you’re drunk?” 

That earns a wry look. “What makes you think I’m going to get drunk?” 

Greg stares at him. “Because that’s the only reason we’d be going to a bar? If we were just going to have an actual beer, I’d have invited you back to my place.” It’s only when David raises an eyebrow and mock-leers that Greg realizes how that final part sounds, and he rolls his eyes and mutters about David having his mind in the gutter. 

They ride in silence, and it’s only five minutes after they should’ve been at the bar that Greg realizes something’s amiss. “Uh, did you take a wrong turn?” he says, twisting in his seat to try and catch a street sign. 

“I decided to take you up on your offer of an actual beer,” David says dryly. His gaze remains focused on the road as Greg stares at him for a long moment. 

“But I didn’t--” he starts, and then slumps down in his seat. “Right.” He just hopes that he actually has some beer in his fridge. He stares out the window and tries to think of the last time he actually went to the grocery store. Seems like he’s been eating takeout and leftovers for decades now, but it’s better than going into a grocery store and having someone recognize him as that CSI who killed a suspect. 

They get to Greg’s apartment and although David raises an eyebrow as Greg gathers up the empty takeout boxes and throws them into the garbage, he doesn’t comment and instead heads over to the fridge and grabs two beers. 

They both sprawl out on the couch and rest their feet on the short table. If Greg’s mother were there, she’d be scolding them for not even bothering to kick off their shoes. One reason to be glad she’s still in San Gabriel, he supposes, and raises his beer in a silent toast to that. 

David smirks and raises his beer as well. “To alcohol?” he says dryly, startling Greg into laughter. He’s still laughing as David pops open his beer can and takes a slow, almost reverential swallow. 

Greg copies the gesture, the beer strong and bitter on his tongue. They sit in silence for a few minutes, nursing their drinks, and then David says, out of the blue, “I heard about the settlement with the James case. Two million?” 

“Two and a half million, actually,” Greg says, and it comes out sharper than he intends. He grimaces. “Sorry.” 

David doesn’t comment, but now there’s a gleam in his eyes that Greg recognizes well. It’s the look he gets whenever he’s figured out the last piece of a puzzle or is about to solve a riddle that’s seemed unsolvable. The gleam has never been directed towards Greg before, and he fidgets uncomfortably under David’s look before he drops his gaze and takes a long swallow of the beer. 

There’s silence once more, but this is more of the anticipatory type of silence, where the hush builds and presses in on someone until they crack and have to shatter the silence. Unfortunately, that someone seems to be Greg, even though inviting David for a drink had been all about getting _David_ to talk. 

“Two and a half million,” he repeats, so suddenly that David’s eyes widen a little. Or maybe it’s the bitterness coating his words that startled David. There is a sudden tightness in his throat, one that threatens to choke him, and yet the words keep coming as though Greg has lost all control of his vocal chords. “Blood-money. An apology to the James family, saying sorry that a CSI murdered your son--”

“You didn’t murder him,” David says, but Greg talks over him, voice rising a little. 

“Two and a half million dollars because the county didn’t think a jury of my peers would find me innocent of wrong-doing. Two and a half million because even the major and the sheriff think I’m guilty. Two and a--”

“_You didn’t murder him_!” David shouts. The vehemence in his voice finally seems to freeze Greg’s vocal chords. David’s face is pale, making the shadows under his eyes even more obvious, but his eyes are blazing and his mouth is a thin, uncompromising line of fury. “It was an accident. I don’t care what the fuck some jury would’ve said. People are idiots. You are _not_ a murderer.”

Greg opens his mouth to say something -- what he’s going to say, he’s not exactly sure -- but this time it’s David’s turn to talk over him, eyes suddenly going unfocused and voice going low and hoarse as he says, almost to himself, “It’s not your fault that you were doing your job. It’s not your fault if when you’re doing the right thing you hurt someone. It still leaves you feeling guilty, but it’s _not your fault_.” The final words are almost a whisper and David’s eyes are still unfocused. 

Greg doesn’t know what makes him do it, but he reaches out and touches David’s free hand, which is clenched in a fist, brushes his fingers against the white knuckles. He can feel the tremor of suppressed something -- grief, anger, helplessness -- and strokes the tense knuckles once, twice before David gives a little shudder and the fist relaxes enough that paleness vanishes. 

When Greg looks at David’s face, the expression he finds there is one of utter exhaustion, those blue eyes tightly closed while the rest of his face almost seems to sag with weariness. His eyes still closed, David swallows and says, “In that show girls case, four days ago, the cell phone of one of the the victims rang while it was in my lab. I answered it.” He’s silent for a moment. “It was the girl’s mother. I had to tell her--” He stops, mouth twisting as though he's tasted something bitter. 

After a moment, David slumps, eyes opening and his lips forming a bitter smile. “Not exactly in my job description,” he says, and Greg can only nod because being a technician is supposed to keep you away from the grief and the loss. After all, hadn't he told his mother when she's protested at him becoming a DNA technician that working in the lab means you’re not on the frontlines, that you don't have to witness firsthand the agony the victims’ families have to go through? 

Greg clears his throat when silence descends once more, but can think of nothing to say. That seems to be all right though, because David’s gaze suddenly drops down and Greg realizes his hand is still covering David’s. 

Some of the weariness fades from David’s face at that, replaced by slight amusement as he drawls, “So, apparently inviting me back to your place _is_ only used as a euphemism for sex.” 

“Shut up,” Greg says, but there’s no real heat behind it and he doesn’t move his hand. Maybe they should actually talk more about the show girls case and Demitrius James, clear the air and see if that banishes the nightmares and dark whispers in the back of their minds, get to know each other’s latest inner demons before sleeping together. They probably should. Maybe it would do them both some good. 

Still, Greg’s never really paid much attention to psychology (not to mention that he suspects David’s never found psychology credible), so all that will have to wait for another day. Tomorrow, maybe, but definitely not today.

Today, though, he keeps his hand on top of David’s and leans into the kiss when David smirks and closes the distance between them.  



End file.
